Oasis
by Bookwrm389
Summary: In the heart of the Ishvalan conflict, a doctor and a soldier cross paths. Manga-based.


_A.N. I know, I know. I really SHOULD be working on Allegiance. Chapter Two is coming along! Just...slowly. I'm not sure what possessed me to write a war story, but I had to get this idea out of my head. You know how it is._

_Anyway, this is my idea of what would happen if Roy had met the Rockbells in the manga/Brotherhood. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who found it interesting that Roy did NOT kill Winry's parents in the manga. I've always hated that about the first series because that single act turned Roy from an unsung hero struggling to redeem himself into a depressing, suicidal angst bucket. Yes, he feels like a monster, and yes, he may have WISHED he could die, but Roy's not such a coward that he would put a gun to his head and throw away everything he's worked so hard for. To me, real bravery is wanting to die and instead choosing to live. That's the Roy Mustang that I see._

_That's it for my rant. Enjoy the angst and gore!  
_

Oasis

"_Grenade!_"

The cry shattered the silence and every soldier in Roy's unit made a desperate, flailing dive for the closest cover they could find, ducking behind wooden carts and empty fruit stands as the little innocuous shell skipped through the deserted market. The explosion sprayed shrapnel in all directions, and Roy bared his teeth in a snarl when he heard his men screaming. Seconds later the Ishvalans showed themselves, dozens of grim-faced men and women armed with knives and staves, and suddenly their scouting foray into the inner city had become an all-out melee.

Harsh sunlight glinted off a blade, and Roy rolled aside just as a curved dagger struck the street where he had been lying. Three of them had come for him, eyes flicking to his gloves as they surrounded his crouched form. Of course they knew by now what those stitched arrays meant. They had learned the hard way that alchemists should always, always, _always _be targeted even before officers.

And if you happened to be both then God help you.

Right away, one of them kicked sand in his face. Roy choked on the grit and snapped anyway, forcing them back with an impressive, if harmless, bout of flames. He lunged as soon as his vision cleared and wrestled the nearest Ishvalan to the ground. The dagger skittered from the man's grasp and it was the work of seconds to snatch it up and gouge him between the ribs. And Roy had to force back a fresh rush of horror and sympathy as he left the doomed man to his hacking, gurgling death. His soldiers had to come before anything else, and that meant staying alive no matter what he had to do or how many people he had to kill. No matter how much he wished his enemy had been the one to make the final blow...

..._he was probably only defending his wife and children, his parents and siblings, giving them a chance to escape. But that doesn't matter to you, does it, because you'll just hunt them down anyway, you monster, and put knives through their hearts as well. Think they'd like to know what you did to their loved one before they die...?_

Roy pivoted around, ready to deal with the other two combatants, but Hughes had come to his aid and already killed one. He hurtled a knife at the third, watching to be sure he had brought down his mark before hauling Roy to his feet. Roy tossed his friend the knife he had taken from the dead man and stood with feet splayed and gloved hand held high. The air crackled as oxygen swirled closer and ignited, creating yet another hellish inferno that was his to command and his alone. The fighting came to a lull as everyone, allies and enemies alike, gazed into the blossoming flames in awe and terror.

The Ishvalans fled, but not quickly enough. Roy squinted though the dust kicked airborne by stampeding feet, chapped lips parted in concentration as the fire wove between the buildings and swooped low to devour them. His remaining hand clenched at his side when their mortal cries echoed back, multiplied a thousand-fold by the buildings all around them. Distantly, he was aware of Hughes standing back to back with him, ready to defend him with blades and bullets while he remained immersed in the alchemy. Other blue-clad figures flanked them, grimy coats flaring out and sweat-damped hair whipped around by the tempest, and Roy thought briefly that he and Hughes must make a very demonic-looking pair where they stood in the eye of the storm.

_But that's exactly what you want, isn't it? If they fear you, they'll run from you and be killed by Armstrong or Gran or Kimbley. Just as dead either way, but at least their blood won't be on your hands, isn't that right...?_

Shouts and shots off to the side. Roy shook off his unfeeling trance with difficulty. No, _no!_ They had come back, cut through a side street try and ambush them. He made to redirect the flames, but his men were fighting in close quarters now and he couldn't take down the insurgents without harming them. Abruptly, Hughes seized Roy's jacket and flung him down behind a nearby cart already chipped and scored from the crossfire.

"Stay down, it's you they want!" Hughes yelled, loading another clip into his pistol. "It was a trap from the beginning!"

"You can't expect me to just—!"

Something clattered between them, bumping the wheel of the cart, and Roy's words caught in his throat at the sight of a grenade inches from his eyeball. Hughes's normally ruddy cheeks paled when he saw it, and he reached a hand for his friend helplessly. A hand that would likely be blown off in the next moment because he was too close and yet too far away...

"_Major Mustang!_"

A fair-skinned hand closed around the deadly shell. The corporal brought his arm back to fling it away, eyes filled with reckless triumph even as Roy counted the seconds in his head and scrambled up and screamed a warning. "No, _don't—!_"

The grenade detonated midswing. Roy braced himself against the cart on trembling legs as he was pelted by metal and glass and blood that belonged to another. Hughes had managed to cover his face just in time, but his uniform was still splattered and his glasses flecked with red, and his face was stricken as he looked down on the lumpy, deformed mass that had been the young corporal.

_Yet another has died for you. Aren't you grateful, you murderer? Well, aren't you?_

"Roy, are you alright?"

Roy nodded, took two steps...and collapsed. Not tripped, not shot or hit, he simply fell down. He lay still for a moment as he tried to figure out why he was so dizzy, why his body felt so heavy when seconds ago he had been perfectly fine. One by one, little injuries caused by the shrapnel made their presence known, stinging, throbbing. A gash on his leg, bruises all over his chest, scrapes on his face. His hand followed the blood up his arm, past his shoulder and collarbone, to his neck...

...where he found a shard of metal embedded just below his jaw, in his carotid. Roy clutched his throat convulsively, realizing that, oh God, he could _feel _it jabbing into fragile flesh, so cold and sharp and biting. So different from the fire he used to love so much...

"What happened?"

"Is that...? Oh God, Major!"

"Major, talk to us!"

Hughes clasped his arms around him and hauled him into his lap, pressing his hand over Roy's in an effort to hold back the spurts of bright red tarnishing the sands beneath them. Roy allowed his head to flop back, too drained to do anything other than gaze up at the smoky sky lethargically. Shadows blotted out the sun above him—his men gathered around, Roy realized, and he felt a rush of vindictive pride. Even without him, they had managed to push back the Ishvalans.

"Roy," Hughes pleaded. "Roy, just hold on. _Please..._"

But it was getting so hard. His eyes refused to focus, and the voices around him were indistinguishable over his thundering heart. Each breath was becoming more painful, more haggard, as he clung to consciousness by a thread. He _couldn't_ leave his men now, not when they were stranded this deep in enemy territory. For his men, he _had _to hold on.

_But do you really want to? What, exactly, are you fighting so hard for?_

"—can't survive in this place without him, we _can't!_ We need his alchemy!"

No, Roy thought bitterly, they weren't the ones who needed his alchemy. The State wanted his alchemy as an easy way to execute hordes of people and raze their homes to the ground. In their eyes, that was all he was good for. Just a means to prolong this godforsaken war. Better if he _did _die here because at least then they couldn't make him destroy any more lives.

As for his men...all they really needed was a leader to keep them alive. In which case...

He squeezed Hughes' hand and caught the older man's eye solemnly. Hughes drew a sharp breath and shook his head, eyes glossy as he tried to reject the burden of leadership, denying that it could really be over for his best friend. "Don't we have any medical supplies?" he shouted at the milling soldiers furiously. "Don't we have _anything?_"

"N-Not for something like this. He needs a doctor!"

"No way, not this deep in the city. The State doesn't allow its doctors anywhere near the front lines."

_And who would save a sinner like you anyway... _

"Wait...wait, there _is _a doctor! Two of them! It's an Amestrian couple who ignored the warnings and set up a clinic further in the city."

"They're treating_ Ishvalans?_"

"I heard they treat _both_ sides. I don't think it's very far from here. If we hurry..."

"Show us!" Hughes barked. "We'll use the cart, so get those bodies out of the way! Someone, help me with the major."

Hands hooked under his legs and armpits and hoisted him off the hot sands onto a splintered wood surface that was not much better. The cart immediately jolted into motion, bouncing around on the uneven terrain. Roy blinked sunspots from his eyes and saw Hughes still above him, looking the other way as he directed the soldiers. "M-Maes...?"

"It's just a little further," Hughes told him quietly. "Hang in there."

"There, I see someone! Hey, _hey!_ Is there a doctor here? We need help!"

Footsteps crunched in the sand and he heard babbling voices all around, far too many to belong to his unit. Roy grunted when dozens of hands lifted him from the cart and bore him away. He only knew they had moved inside when the sun's blazing heat vanished, the transition so sudden that it left his skin clammy and cold, and he was laid out on a cot that creaked under his weight. Roy wanted to look around and figure out what was happening, where they were, but just the thought of trying to force his eyelids open was too arduous.

"Step back, please, let us through. You, soldiers! If you plan to stay inside, leave your weapons at the door. There's no place for them in this clinic."

"But..._all _our weapons?"

"All of them!"

Before Roy had even comprehended those words someone unbuckled his holster and took it and his gun away. Then fingers hooked under the cuffs of his gloves and slid them off his hands. Roy groped after the ignition-cloth with a feeble cry, terrified at the thought of being without his alchemy even for a moment.

"Don't try to move, Major," a stern, feminine voice advised as multiple arms held him down. "You can have them back once we've treated you."

"No, I n-need them!" Roy protested, wheezing when the shard in his neck shifted. "My men—I have to protect my men—!"

Roy didn't even notice the syringe poking in the crook of his elbow until the pain in his throat abruptly ceased. Everything took on a hazy quality as the sedative sapped his strength and muddled his thoughts. He was coaxed back down onto the cot with gentle, reassuring words, too listless to even put up a proper fight.

"That's it. Just take nice, slow breaths…"

"Don't worry about us, Major. We'll be okay…"

Reality slipped from his grasp, and Roy spiraled into a numbing darkness and knew nothing more for a long, long time. Nothing truly remarkable happened to him—at least none of the things that were said to happen when one stood on the precipice of life and death. There was no spiritual awakening or sense of serenity, no booming voices calling from the heavens, no light at the end of the tunnel. Roy didn't even remember that he was dying. The first thing he felt when the drug finally wore off and he came back to himself was vague annoyance that they hadn't given him more and let him sleep awhile longer. He was _tired,_ damn it, so that was the least they could have done...

Then Roy realized he had no clue who "they" were. And _that _was when he remembered that the last time he was awake he had been mortally wounded and bleeding to death in Hughes' arms. His heart gave a painful jolt at that recollection and his eyes snapped open. The small room he was in was very dark and utterly alien in more ways than one. The past months had been spent huddled in tents or out under the desert sun and stars, not within four walls, and Roy instantly felt trapped, confined.

But he wasn't dying anymore. He supposed that was a minor boon. The thin, scratchy blanket covering him did little to keep him warm, but his cloak was hanging off the back of a chair across the room and out of his reach at the moment. Roy scanned all around him for his gloves and received another mild shock when he noticed several people in the room with him, all lying on the floor. Sleeping, from what he could tell, and he relaxed slightly when he recognized Hughes dozing against the opposite wall. Now he remembered. They had brought him to some kind of clinic. The only light came from an electric lantern in the next room over which swathed a portion of the floor in buttery yellow. Beyond the door Roy spotted some of the others from his unit grouped around a table, speaking in low tones.

Speaking with Ishvalans.

He didn't have time for more than a quick double take before the door opened wider to admit a young woman who looked like she had been through a war herself. Both her dress and the apron tied over it were smudged with dirt and other substances Roy didn't even want to guess at, and cascades of wavy hair the same color as the desert sands were secured haphazardly with, of all things, a rubber band. She tread carefully around the slumbering men to his bedside and smiled wearily. "It's about time, the sedative should have worn off hours ago. You must have needed the rest, I suppose. How are you feeling, Major?"

Roy prodded the bandages on his neck gingerly. "Better, I think. And I'm guessing I have you to thank for that, Miss...?"

She took a seat on a stool and touched her fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. "_Mrs_. Rockbell," she clarified firmly. "Sara Rockbell."

He nodded, and his attention flicked back to the door. An Ishvalan boy no older than eight or nine was peeking in with a guarded expression. Sara looked over her shoulder. "Jarroll, would you reheat some of that stew your sister made? And please, have some yourself before you collapse."

Jarroll nodded uncertainly, still staring at Roy with wide eyes. As he turned to go Roy noticed one of the boy's arms was secured in a sling and all the hair on the left side of his scalp was gone. Burned off, judging by the mottled scars crisscrossing dark skin. Roy wondered for a fleeting moment if he had been the one to inflict those. It was so unsettling how little he knew about the ones he killed. That there were times when he couldn't have said for sure how many had fallen beneath the onslaught of his alchemy each time he snapped his fingers...

"He's not going to poison it," Sara said a little defensively. "I'll taste it myself first, if you want, but I trust every single Ishvalan who has volunteered to help us here."

"No, I wasn't thinking that at all," Roy said hastily, then lowered his voice when she put a finger to her lips. "How long have I been here?"

"Well, let's see, your men brought you in early in the afternoon," Sara murmured, glancing at the cracked clock on the wall. "And it's around one in the morning now, so I'd say ten or eleven hours. You're lucky to have survived. You lost a massive amount of blood and we didn't have time to do a proper test for your blood type before giving you a transfusion. We just had to give you whatever we had and hope for the best."

Roy turned his arm over, noticing for the first time the needle in his vein and the plastic bag filled with dark liquid hanging off a hook in the wall. "Oh," he said rather lamely and took a second, more sober look around. He had heard about this clinic and the two Amestrian doctors rumored to run it, but hadn't really believed it existed. It just didn't seem possible—a place where the wounded from both sides of a battlefield could meet and seek treatment side by side without wanting to slit each other's throats. And yet here Roy was watching his own men peacefully interact with the same Ishvalans they had been fighting only hours before. Only an occasional groan or cough disturbed the soporific calm that reigned here.

But setting up a clinic this deep in the region had its cost. There was no way they were getting regularly supplied by the military so everything here must have been salvaged from whatever had been left behind by the fleeing Ishvalans. Even the building itself, which had clearly not been designed as a clinic. The room they were in now must have once been a bedroom, but the personal effects had been cleared out along with most of the furniture to make room for medical equipment and bedding for the sleepers on the floor. The rest of the house was probably much the same. Roy considered himself extraordinarily lucky to have gotten a cot at all, however lumpy and uncomfortable.

Jarroll reappeared then with a chipped mug cupped in his hands. Roy propped himself on his elbows, a little embarrassed at his own eagerness. His most recent meals had consisted of dried jerky, stale bread and lizards speared on sticks. Just the smell of whatever was in that bowl was making him ravenous.

The boy hung back, nose wrinkled with indecision before he thrust the mug into Sara's hands and scurried away. Sara sighed a little, sounding more sad than exasperated, and passed the mug to him. "Make sure you eat it all. You need it, and for once we have plenty to go around. You're men have already had their share."

Roy gulped down half the lukewarm stew in one go, barely resisting the urge to let his eyes flutter shut when he tasted _real _meat, _real _vegetables. "Thank you for sheltering them as well," he said with real gratitude. "I know it can't have been easy for you to deal with an influx like this."

"Not at all," Sara assured him. "Actually, they've all been exceedingly helpful. I told them they didn't have to, but they did some foraging and got us more supplies, and they've kept up a constant watch outside just in case any battles came our way. It's certainly a credit to your leadership. I can't _tell _you some of the officers I've come across who let their soldiers get away with the most _atrocious_ behavior..."

Credit to his leadership...Roy averted his eyes and made himself swallow the rest of the meal before nausea could stop him. Certainly she wouldn't be saying that if she had seen some of the things he had done, the number of times he had failed those who counted on him. If she had seen that corporal act so rashly to save him and pay for it with his own life.

_Aren't you grateful, killer?_

And abruptly Roy couldn't bear to stay here, in this untainted sanctuary, a moment longer. He set the bowl aside and swung his bare feet to the floor. "I need to talk to my men. I have to make sure they're ready to move out by dawn."

"So soon? But you haven't fully recovered yet!"

"If I can walk, then I've recovered enough," Roy said resolutely, though inwardly he doubted he was even capable of _that _much. "I have to report to my superiors as soon as possible, and it's dangerous for us to stay here."

"Now, wait a minute!" Sara said indignantly. "I'd wager this clinic is far safer than any military encampment!"

Roy braced his palm against the wall and carefully staggered to his feet, gritting his teeth against a wave of vertigo. "It's not safe for _you_. If any of the opposing forces learn I'm here, they might not hesitate to attack—"

Without warning Sara leapt to her feet, seized his wafer of a pillow and used it to smack him upside the head. "Major Mustang, sit _down!_"

Stunned, Roy sat. A suspiciously amused-sounding cough came from the dark corners of the room, but a quick look told him that Hughes was still quite asleep. Sara towered above him with a sullen glower, cheeks pink. "Now, _look_," she said, scolding him with an ease that told him she was perfectly accustomed to bossing around men of much higher rank than himself. "I don't care how insignificant you think that injury is, you aren't well enough to return to the battlefield just yet. I will _not_ have you waltzing out that door only to collapse two blocks later and force your men to carry you all the way back! Now you will _stay_ in this clinic until I pronounce you healthy again, is that understood?"

Roy slumped back against the headboard, the fleeting rush of energy fled along with much of his pride when he acknowledged how right she was about his condition. He crossed his arms, his scowl petulant. "Just my luck, you're one of _those _doctors."

"You'll thank me later, Major," Sara said primly and resumed her seat. "Oh, I almost forgot. It took me quite awhile to get the blood out of them, but..."

She slid a hand into her apron and set his gloves on the bedspread. The ignition-cloth was once again pristine and the arrays seemed to have come to no harm. Roy touched one of them, letting his eyes rove over the familiar symbols. It just wasn't right that, after the number of lives they had ended, the very sight of his gloves could still make him feel so safe.

"Something wrong?"

"...are you sure you want to give me those?" Roy said quietly. "You must know how I plan to use them."

Sara cast the gloves a troubled look. "Of course I do. I've seen with my own eyes what alchemists are capable of."

"Then why, if you've sided with the Ishvalans...?"

"I haven't _sided _with anyone," Sara snapped. She clasped her hands together tightly. "Major, it may be hard for you to understand this from your perspective, but I don't recognize the two sides to this war. The very nature of my profession allows me the luxury of being ambiguous. Everyone who comes to my door is my _patient_, and I'll do everything in my power to keep my patients alive."

"Even if those patients are only going to kill each other as soon as they step out the door?" Roy shot back, shaking his head. Did she not realize how utterly _pointless_ that was? This was a war, and that meant _someone_ was going to die. No matter how good her intentions, this clinic and all it represented held no more substance than a distant mirage. Just a dream. Not reality.

Roy nodded at the door and the soft voices conversing beyond. "As soon as we return, my men and I will be sent out again. And I doubt those Ishvalans are going to flee as long as they still have ground to stand on. We'll be right back where we were, and it'll be like this respite never happened. Do you honestly believe you can make the fighting stop just by treating us under the same roof?"

"No, of course not," Sara answered in a subdued voice. "I just...I only want..."

She trailed off, head hung low as she stared at the floor. A harsh wind ripped through the street outside and rattled the shutters on the window, as if expressing its fury that they were safely sheltered rather than at the mercy of the elements. Roy shuddered and huddled under his blanket. Once night fell in the desert everything became like ice to the touch, the complete opposite of when the sun was out. There simply was no middle ground to be had.

Roy looked up at a rustle of paper and saw that Sara had taken a small photograph from her pocket. She held it out to him without ceremony, and he obliged her with a quick glance. The photo was marred by dozens of wrinkles and faded from exposure to the sun, but it was still possible to discern three young faces sprawled around a picnic in the middle of a grassy field. Two boys with sun-kissed hair and a girl who greatly resembled the doctor beamed happily at the camera, though one of the boys sported a sly glint in his eye that told Roy he was two seconds away from starting a food fight.

"That's my daughter," Sara told him. "This picture was taken nearly nine months ago, not long before my husband and I left to help in this war. I haven't seen her since. She's becoming more of a lady by the day, and I'm not there to witness it. I'd never have left her in the first place except for one very important reason that she's not old enough to understand yet. Do you know that reason?"

Roy took the photo from her, gazing at the children a little wistfully. "Leaving her was the only way to protect her. That's the reason everyone is carrying with them."

"Not everyone," Sara said darkly. "Not the ones who started this war. Your generals, your Fuhrer, they sat back in their offices on the other side of the country and decided genocide was the only way to deal with a people who are a little different than they are—people they've never tried to understand or even truly met face to face. They made the first attack and crushed all in their path just so their administration wouldn't appear weak. People are dying needlessly every day for _office politics_."

Roy hung his head beneath the weight of the accusation. It was true, absolutely true.

"I didn't start this war," Sara went on. "And I know full well it's not within my power to finish it, no matter how many people I save. All I want is to make sure _someone _is left alive by the time it's all over."

She gave him a frail smile. "Someone has to be there for my daughter in case I...in case I never return home again. And maybe it's just my wishful thinking, but I'd rather it be someone who has seen the battlefield with their own eyes and will do everything in their power to keep her away from it. Someone...like you, Major."

Roy jerked his head up at that. "Like _me?_"

Sara nodded solemnly. "This war may have been started for all the wrong reasons, but the violence won't end unless men like you stay alive to see it through to its end."

It was a compliment that felt more like a burden, and Roy had no clue how to react. Sara seemed a little self-conscious about her speech and said nothing more, still watching him. And for the first time, Roy noticed how very _blue _her eyes were. It was such a calming color and one he hadn't seen in so long that he couldn't help but stare.

"What...?"

Before she could finish her inquiry, the sky outside the window burned a bright, glaring crimson. Seconds later a distant explosion made vials of medicine vibrate and clink together. Sara turned toward the window sharply, lips parted in surprise.

"Kimbley," Roy murmured, recognizing the sharp tang of chemicals even from this distance. "I was supposed to report back long ago. They've probably assumed we were killed and decided to go ahead with this section's eradication."

"Eradication?" Sara breathed. "But...but this is a civilian section. I thought we would be _safe_ here."

"You won't be safe for much longer," Roy said bleakly. "The forces behind us aren't like me, they'll kill every Ishvalan here."

"But they're patients—!"

"They won't care," Roy insisted. "They'll only see enemies. Bedridden enemies with no weapons and no way to defend themselves."

Sara hugged herself, looking quite sick at the thought. She stood quickly. "I need to warn everyone. We have enough patients on their feet now, so working together we should be able to move the critically injured to another location. We'll have to abandon some of the supplies, but we've made due with less...and there's that encampment not far from here where we could set up..."

Roy watched her pace around fretfully, almost surprised by this strange urge to help her. And before he knew it, he made the offer. "Do you need any assistance? I can't stay myself, I need to report back. But I could leave some of my men to help you transport whatever you need. They could show you the safest routes to take."

Sara stilled. Then she turned to him with a smile so bright that she looked more like a young girl than a doctor. "No. You were right, Major. You may be my patient, but that doesn't mean you've stopped being a soldier and you need all your men with you once you leave this place. Maybe...you could do something to slow those people down? Tell them there are still innocents here?"

"I can't promise anything," Roy cautioned. "You have to be gone by tomorrow night."

"Sara?"

An older man appeared in the doorway, harried and somber, a wedding ring glinting off his finger in the dimness. "We have some more. It looks like they got caught in an explosion."

"How bad?"

"Not good," the man said grimly, running a hand through his hair. "They're pretty banged up. The worst has some bad burns on his face and I think he's in shock. He keeps mumbling about his arm being torn off when they're both clearly still attached..."

"I'll come," Sara said, ushering him out the door. She glanced back at Roy once as she pulled the door almost but not quite closed behind her. "Get some rest, Major. I'll inform your men to be ready to leave early in the morning."

Roy nodded, and though he had no intention of doing so his eyes began to slip shut of their own accord. Another flash of crimson light made him look to the window in wariness, but judging by the delay between light and sound Kimbley was still clear across the city. The man loved to take his time. It could take him days to finish a job. Roy sincerely hoped those doctors and their patients had time to escape before the alchemist got anywhere near the clinic. He let his eyes drift over the room one last time, heart growing heavy at the thought of it being emptied, abandoned. Just another obstacle for the military to wipe out.

But...something told him he wouldn't be forgetting this clinic or those vivid eyes anytime soon. Seeing their bright, honest gleam had momentarily quenched some secret thirst that he thought his heart had forgotten long ago. A longing for peace, for compassion...and a hope and a prayer that, someday, such things wouldn't be as rare as an oasis in the desert.

Across the room, Hughes raised his head when the doctors vanished and watched the door until their footsteps faded. Then he looked back at Roy, eyes glinting in merriment. "Now _she _would make a good wife."

"She's already married, Hughes," Roy mumbled sleepily as he set the photo on the nightstand and turned over so his back was to the door. He knew without asking that he could trust his men to guard it.

"Just saying..."

* * *

_A.N. The new patient mumbling about his arm is, indeed, Scar. In my mind, he kills Winry's parents shortly after Roy and company leave the clinic the next day. Simply tragic, I know. I'm not really sure how I feel about how this turned out. It's kind of...meh. I feel like I could have done better.  
_


End file.
